


Letters from the Heart

by vix_spes



Category: Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Letters, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: As she prepares to become mistress of Donwell Abbey, Emma makes a discovery.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallingvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingvoices/gifts).



> Dear fallingvoices, I love writing AU's so I read my assignment with great delight. This ran away with me somewhat and I'm afraid I couldn't quite get the porn in but I hope you enjoy it! Massive thanks to SH for her beta help.

“Damn it!” Emma cursed as she tried to reach for the particular book she wanted but narrowly missed, triggering a small avalanche of items in the process. She pressed in close to the bookshelves to avoid getting hit, only moving minutes later when she deemed it to be safe. Moving slowly down the ladder, she then tiptoed gingerly around the devastation that she had unwittingly caused. All she had wanted was a book to occupy her time while she waited for her fiancé. She and George were supposed to be going over details for their swiftly approaching wedding but he had been appropriated by his estate manager on some urgent business and Emma had offered to occupy herself while he dealt with it.

All of a sudden, something amidst the fallen books caught her eye and she moved closer for a better look. Further investigation showed that one of the items that fell hadn’t been a book at all but instead a box designed to look like a book and, when it fell, it had scattered its contents across the floor. Recognising her own handwriting on one bundle of papers, she picked them up to get a closer look.

The thin satin ribbon wasn’t hers but the letters were undoubtedly so. She remembered writing every single one of them for they had been written at a time of great uncertainty for her. A time when her world had been turned around and her best friend hadn’t been by her side as he always had been in the past. She had felt completely alone until a new friend had entered her life, opened her eyes and given her hope.

_***FLASHBACK***_

Emma couldn’t help but feel strange as she watched the first ambulances turn down the drive of Hartfield. Turning her childhood home into a convalescent home for wounded soldiers may have been her idea but that did nothing to allay the feeling of unease at the thought of so many strangers living in her home.

As the war had lingered on far longer than any of them had expected and just about every young man that Emma had ever danced with at a ball in the army either voluntarily or having been conscripted, Emma had felt the need to do something, not merely continue with the life of the idle rich that she had always been accustomed to. Her father simply wouldn’t hear of her going to London to train as a nurse but, with the help of her sister and Mrs Weston, Emma managed to persuade him to let her undertake some training at Anstie Grange, the military hospital in Dorking.

It had been here that Emma had met Jane Fairfax. Already a trained nurse, Jane had taken Emma under her wing, teaching her all the simple tasks that Emma had never had cause to do with her sheltered upbringing. She had taught Emma how to boil water, make tea and boil an egg before moving onto more important things such as washing and dressing wounds. Despite the two of them being the same age, Jane took a role in Emma’s life much like an older sister and, as such, Emma had looked up to her. When the time had come for Emma to leave the hospital and return to Hartfield to look after the first wounded that would arrive a few weeks hence, Emma had wept at having to leave her friend.

Putting aside all thoughts of Jane, Emma firmed her resolve, straightened her uniform and walked calmly down the stairs to meet the ambulances only for all sense of decorum to leave her as she saw a familiar figure descend from the first vehicle.

“Jane!” The words had barely left her lips by the time Emma wrapped her arms around her friend. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Dr Perry asked for volunteers to help staff Hartfield. Given that it would bring me closer to my aunt and to you, I put my name forward. But there will be time for us to talk later; is everything ready? Here are our first patients.”

The next few days passed by in a flurry of activity as Hartfield came to life, not with guests and extra staff as it had done for the large parties that had been thrown in the past, but with doctors and nurses, orderlies and wounded soldiers. Mr Woodhouse could be heard grumbling that his house was being overtaken but Emma assured everyone to pay him no heed; she knew that he had no real objections to the presence of the army, he simply disliked change. Besides, it had only been her father and Emma rattling around since Mrs Weston had married and before that it had only been the three of them as Isabella had lived in London since her marriage to John Knightley. It was far better that the space was put to good use.

Emma was also delighted that Mrs Weston was now running Hartfield on a day-to-day basis as the nursing that Emma was now doing precluded her from continuing with her usual role as mistress of the house. They may not see each other in a social capacity but, nonetheless, Emma was grateful for her former governess’ presence as she had missed her sorely since the woman’s marriage and it gave Emma someone familiar amidst all of the upheaval. Jane also proved to be a bastion of calm competence in everything that she did despite the controlled chaos that surrounded them and Emma found herself growing increasingly fond of her.

Given that her father had refused to let her do the complete training, there was a limit to what Emma could do, so she sought other ways of being useful. Emma had always been a social creature; vivacious, charming and brought up to be the perfect hostess. These skills had been honed in drawing rooms across London and the surrounding county, but now Emma brought them to bear on an entirely different audience.

She conversed and played chess with soldiers as she tried to distract them from their situations, she read letters to those who had been blinded by gas, and scribed letters for those who were incapable of doing so themselves. Some of them wanted someone to talk to, to listen to them and others simply wanted someone to hold their hand. Whatever comfort Emma could offer, she did so gladly. It didn’t take Emma long to realise that the letters were what the wounded soldiers craved the most and she scribed until her hand ached and read until her voice was hoarse.

It was at this point that Emma realised that it wasn’t just the soldiers who depended upon the letters so much, but the staff as well. While Jane may be cool and collected almost all the time, she was wracked with nerves whenever the post was delivered or a telegram arrived. Curious as to what could be the cause of this, Emma drew her friend away into the privacy of her bedroom when they both finished their shifts, intent on questioning her. The answer she received was not what Emma was expecting.

“You’re engaged? To whom? For how long? Jane, why is it that I’m only now finding this out?”

“Because our engagement is a secret one; no-one until now knew of it. Now you are the only one to know. My fiancé is Frank Churchill, currently a captain in the…”

“Frank Churchill?” Emma was dumbstruck, “as in _the_ Frank Churchill? Mr Weston’s son that we have heard so much about but never seen.”

“The very same.”

“But … I do not understand. Why must it be kept a secret? I’m sure that both Mr and Mrs Weston would be delighted by the news.”

“They may be, but his aunt would not.” There was a pause of no more than a second before Jane not so subtly changed the subject. “Is there no-one that you would write to yourself, Emma? You’re so good at writing the letters for the boys; is there no-one that would like to hear from you?”

“I do not think so. I know most of the young men who live around here, but none of them as more than a passing acquaintance to exchange pleasantries with or to dance with at a ball. Besides, so many of them are dead already, killed in early actions. No, I suppose the only person would be … but, no that’s a silly idea.”

“I’m sure it’s not a silly idea, Emma. Who would be the only person you might write to?”

“Mr Knightley.”

“ _The_ Mr Knightley that I’ve heard so much about?” The twinkle in Jane’s eyes showed that she was teasing. “I hadn’t realised that you were well acquainted. He’s the Earl of Arundel, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right, although the title doesn’t mean too much these days. His estate, Donwell Abbey, abuts Hartfield and I’ve known him all my life. His younger brother is married to my older sister and he’s always been around. We were all rather surprised that he was called back up; he’s in his late-thirties but he was one of the first to go.”

“Are you in love with him, Emma?”

Jane’s words shocked Emma at first before she laughed, although it sounded forced, even to her own ears. “Me? In love with Mr Knightley? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”

“Yet he clearly means a lot to you.”

“Well, yes,” now Emma was stammering. Jane’s words had upset her equilibrium and left her confused, “he means a lot to everyone here at Hartfield. He was the first person to hold me that wasn’t my parents or my nanny. I have long considered him to be my dearest friend but I would not say that I’m in love with him.”

“Then I apologise for being so forward. But if Mr Knightley is such a dear friend, why do you not write to him?”

“I … I do not know. I suppose that I never thought of it. Do you think he would mind me writing to him? Would … would it be proper?”

“I have every confidence that he would love it if you were to write to him. As for it being proper, I don’t see why it would not be, given how long you have known him and considering that your families are already bound together. Even if it were not proper, we are in the midst of a war and what is or is not proper does not seem to matter quite so much. If I were you Emma, I’d write to your Mr Knightley or you may regret it.”

(~*~)

Emma thought on Jane’s words for several days before deciding to take her advice. She wrote a long letter, making sure to keep her written tone just as it would be if she were speaking to him face to face, and imparting all of the gossip from Highbury, as well as detailing all of her own activities. When she was finished, she approached her brother-in-law, unsure how he would feel about Emma writing to his brother. To Emma’s relief, John had no qualms about surrendering the address and gave his approval, stating that he had no doubt George would be delighted to hear from Emma.

Even so, Emma was filled with trepidation as she posted the letter and then waited anxiously to see if she would receive a reply. She attempted to distract herself, throwing herself into her work with more vigour than usual but, even so, she felt as though she could have cried in relief when Jane handed her a letter with an enigmatic smile, and a quick glance at the direction showed that it had been written in Mr Knightley’s distinctive hand. Feeling an inexplicable need to keep this private, just for herself, Emma had tucked the envelope into her apron and carried on with her duties, determined to wait until she was alone and could savour the contents properly.

She had finally read it later that evening, curled up in the window seat of her bedroom, which overlooked the large expanse of lawn and the copse of trees that signified the end of Hartfield’s bounds and the start of Mr Knightley’s estate. She traced the handwriting on the front several times before she opened the letter, remembering how Mr Knightley had written her notes as a girl. Emma had tried to savour the letter, take her time in reading its contents but she failed miserably and ended up devouring the contents in a matter of minutes. It was clear that Knightley had tried to do the same as Emma, to make it seem as though he were speaking to her. Indeed, if Emma closed her eyes she could almost hear his voice in her ear.

It didn’t take Emma long to come to the conclusion that she had missed Knightley far more than she had realised. He had always been a part of her life and Emma hadn’t realised just how much she had come to rely upon him for advice and friendship and simply for his continued presence in her life. She felt a burst of warmth spread through her as Knightley wrote of his pride at the way that she had trained as a nurse and given Hartfield over to the army as a convalescent home. It wasn’t the first time that his rare praise had elicited this sensation in her and she couldn’t help but wonder why it was his praise that garnered such a reaction, where the praise of her father or her former governess did not. Perhaps it was that Knightley’s praise was so rarely bestowed that it was all the more pleasurable when it happened.

From the arrival of that first letter, Emma became as eager as Jane and the soldiers for the arrival of the post and just as anxious whenever the telegram boy was seen. Each letter that she received from Mr Knightley was pored over until she knew the words by heart and then placed for safekeeping in a box that had once belonged to Emma's great grandmother and had been given to Emma upon her eighth birthday. Some were short, clearly written in a rush, and Emma knew that there were things he wasn't telling her, but the letters meant that he was still alive and that was good enough for her.

~*~

They had been exchanging letters for nearly a year when Emma's world came crashing down. There had been nothing from Mr Knightley, or George as she had started calling him in her head, for several weeks and Emma was beginning to fear the arrival of the telegram boy more and more with each passing day. In the end, it was not Peter from the village who delivered the news, but Emma's brother-in-law, George's brother. Emma had been told that John was waiting for her in the library and her heart had plummeted as she entered and saw the grave look on his face.

"He's not? John, please tell me he isn't dead."

"We don't know, Emma. He and Robert Martin are listed as missing in action but that could mean anything. The fighting around Ypres has been fierce for months and with the Germans breaking the Hague Convention and using gas...."

Emma nodded. They had a few patients at Hartfield who were suffering from the results of German gas attacks and she knew all too well how horrific an implement of war it was. "Of course. But, missing in action... it means there's still a chance he's alive."

"Technically, yes. But Emma, I'm going to be blunt. He could equally be dead. I don't want to think that but it's the truth. We may never know."

"No. He's alive. I know it. He has to be."

For the next few weeks, Emma moved around Hartfield as though she were a wraith. She threw everything that she had into her work, trying to exhaust herself so that she couldn’t think too much about Knightley’s fate. It didn’t help matters that Harriet, Robert Martin’s wife, had also volunteered her services at Hartfield, but she lacked Emma’s strength and could often be found in tears, lamenting the loss of her husband.

It had been three weeks since John Knightley had brought news of his brother going missing, and Emma, having given up on sleep for the third night in a row, had gone down to the store cupboard to roll more bandages. Given her lack of sleep and the early hour, Emma had thought that she was hallucinating when she saw a familiar figure wearing a uniform that had seen better days stood in the doorway. She got to her feet, barely able to stand, her legs were shaking so much, the bandages unravelling haphazardly and unnoticed across the floor.

It was him. It was George. He had come home.

As she saw him stood there, whole, hale and very much breathing, Emma finally understood everything. Her reaction to Knightley going missing in action, the emotions that she'd experienced as they waited for news of him and the emotions that were currently racing through her. There was only one thing that could cause all this; love. And not just the love of one friend for another. No, a different type of love altogether; more passionate. There was no denying it, she was in love with Mr Knightley.

Emma Woodhouse was in love with George Knightley.

"George."

She thought she saw a hint of shock in his eyes at her use of his Christian name but she was already flying towards him. As soon as she came close, Emma flung her arms around his neck and, in a forward move that she would probably be horrified at later, kissed him. George was still for what seemed like an interminably long time but, in all likelihood, was nothing more than a few seconds before his arms were closing around her and he was returning her kiss.

“Dearest, darling Emma. Perhaps I would have gone missing sooner if I had known that this would be the welcome upon my return.”

“No. I refuse to let you even joke about such a thing.”

“ _Emma…_ ”

“No, I love you, George Knightley. Do you have any idea what I have gone through for the last few weeks thinking that you might be dead? That I might never have the opportunity to tell you?”

“We have been two sorry cases then, for I have spent every minute of the last few weeks wishing that I had had the courage to tell you that I love you.”

Emma’s heart was in her mouth as she confirmed what she had just heard. “You love me?”

“I have loved you for longer than has been truly appropriate, Emma. I have simply been waiting for you to catch up.”

_***END FLASHBACK***_

A small smile gracing her lips, Emma finished reading the last of the letters that she had sent to George; one which she had sent just after she had accepted his proposal, made while he was home on medical leave having been wounded at the Battle of the Somme. A letter which spoke of her plans, her hopes and her delight at being his fiancée. While the letters were kept neatly, it was obvious that they had been read over and over again; several of them, including the one that she had just read, looked as though they were near to falling apart and others were stained with what seemed to be tear drops as well as bits of grime and even the odd smear of blood. Emma shuddered at the thought of what George had seen while he was in France and, once again, thanked God that she had been one of the lucky ones; that George had returned to her.

Others hadn’t been so lucky. Jane hadn’t been so lucky.

It had been George himself who had brought the news, that Frank Churchill had been killed at the Battle of Passchendaele, having survived the earlier action on the Somme. George had also been there and, even though he and Frank hadn’t been in the same regiment, had asked permission to deliver the news himself. Emma had held her friend as she sobbed and later, as she had confessed everything first to her aunt and then to Frank’s father and step-mother. Afterwards, it had been Emma’s turn to cry on George’s shoulder at the unfairness of it all, how Emma still had the prospect of a life together with the man that she loved ahead of her while Jane’s chance of a happy ever after had been cruelly snatched away from her. Or at least, Emma had hoped that the prospect lay ahead of her. Until the war ended, there had been no guarantee that George would survive and Emma had vowed that she wouldn’t even think about making any plans for their wedding until the war was over.

In the end, Emma hadn’t started thinking about her wedding until the armistice had been announced and, even then, Emma had felt guilty about forging ahead with plans but Jane had assured her that she was happy for them and that Emma shouldn’t put things on hold because of Jane. She had gone on to say that she hoped Emma would include her in the bridal party when the time came. Even so, Emma had been unenthusiastic at first before she had realised just how much the Knightley/Woodhouse wedding meant to the village of Highbury as well as to the estates of both Hartfield and Donwell Abbey. Once that had happened, she had thrown herself into the planning with a vengeance and was determined that her wedding would be the event to usher in the new decade.

Laying aside her letters, Emma reached for the other pieces of paper and realised that they were more letters. Letters written by George that she had never seen before. Unfolding the first piece of paper, Emma realised that not only was it a letter written by George but it was a letter written to her. They were all letters to her.

As she read the words, tears brimmed unbidden in Emma’s eyes and started to roll down her face. If she had ever doubted George Knightley’s love for her, these letters put those fears to rest once and for all. How had it taken her so long to realise how he truly felt for her? Emma read the letters with her heart in her mouth. She read of George’s hopes, fears and dreams, things that he had never voiced and she realised, truly realised, the depth and longevity of George Knightley’s feelings for Emma Woodhouse.

“Emma? What’s all this of this?”

Emma hastily swiped away the tears that had spilled over her cheeks before she turned to face him but knew that she had been unsuccessful when his face creased in concern and he hurried over to her.

“You’ve been crying. What’s happened?”

“I found these,” Emma raised a handful of the letters that she had just been reading.

“Ah. Those. I had forgotten that I placed them in here. Letters from the heart, every single one of them.”

“But why did you never send any of them?”

Knightley came over to sit next to Emma on the loveseat. “Pride, I suppose. We were in the middle of a war and I didn’t want you to feel obligated. I’m seventeen years older than you are and there was no guarantee that any of us would make it out of France alive. I know you, Emma and I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me, to marry me because you thought it was the right thing to do. If you were ever going to marry me, I wanted you to do it because you loved me.”

“I do, I do love you.”

“Dearest Emma, I have no doubt of that now but I wanted to be certain. At the time, those letters were an outlet that I sorely needed. I carried them with me alongside the letters that you sent. I never dared to dream that my affections would be returned, that there was a chance that I could be this happy. I suppose that there is no real need for me to keep them now.”

“No!” Emma clutched the letters to her chest. “You’re not getting rid of them, I forbid it. In fact, I demand these letters as a wedding present.” Emma watched as George’s expression softened and she knew that she had been successful.

“Truly, my Emma? You want these letters as a wedding gift? After all that I have offered you, all that any other woman would demand of me, all you require of me are some simple letters? Knowing you as I do, I should have expected nothing less.”

“Letters from the heart, George, you said it yourself. What more could I ask for? What more could I want? No, we shall keep these letters in plain sight and they will always be there; a constant reminder of how lucky we are to not only make it through the war but to discover the deep love that truly existed between us.”

“How can I disagree with that? As you wish it, my Emma. The letters are yours to do with as you please.”

And that was precisely what Emma did.

For the entirety of their lives together, an ornately carved box – an heirloom of the Woodhouse family – sat on a table in the library of Donwell Abbey and, whenever they were asked what the box contained, George and Emma Knightley would share a smile and a kiss and simply reply, ‘letters from the heart.’


End file.
